


Wash Us Clean - A Captain Duckling Tale

by TheDarkDragonfly



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Captain Duckling, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Pirates, Princess Emma Swan, Rating May Change, Romance, Slow Build, a storm brings them together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkDragonfly/pseuds/TheDarkDragonfly
Summary: Slightly AU / Multi-chapter / Captain Duckling: Captain Killian Jones has been hunting the Queen Anne's Revenge for years. When he catches sight of her far off the shores of Misthaven, he take up the chase into the mouth of a fearsome tempest. Determined to met out his brand of justice to her captain and re-take the treasure which was pilfered from him, he instead finds something far, far more valuable.Princess Emma of Misthaven is traveling on her mother's flagship, The First Snow, when she is set upon by pirates. Taken hostage and left to drown in the brig of a ship, she finds herself once again at the mercy of lawless men, but something about their Captain intrigues her - she has never met someone like him before.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Emma Swan, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 44
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter One

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

The rain tore down upon them in sheets. 

Bellowing orders to his crew, Captain Killian Jones held the wheel, leaning heavily into the swells; sweat covered and exhausted. Waves swallowed the _Jolly_ whole, rising from the depths of the sea to smash again and again against her hull, wood creaking angrily under the feet of her crew. 

This storm was a fearsome creature. Appearing on the horizon as they chased they’re folly across the sea, it was on them in a matter of minutes. With nowhere to hide, the captain pushed hard and plowed ahead - straight into the face of it. Killian had been at the helm since the first gust of salt spray had whipped angrily across his face, signaling the start of the assault. 

Lightning lit up the world, sharply contrasted the yellow painted gunwales against the black swelling waves, frothy across the peaks. Up, up, up they went again, only to crest and plunge back onto the surface again. Salt spray stung his face as he narrowed his eyes against the assaulting wind. Up and down they rode, rigging pulled taunt and straining against the wood, the sails snapping - wild and angry - at the tempest that rolled around them. The crimson flag above them snarling, curling and thrashing against the main mast like a vicious creature promising death and despair.

The sea was part of him, as much as it was part of the world. They had weathered their share of storms, the _Jolly_ and he. But this storm was different. Never before has he endured this punishing wrath of waves, beating against the decks in a near constant drumming, drowning out his shouted commands and sending the crew into barefoot stampedes, sliding to and fro across the sodden planks; hands grappling at ropes and straps to keep from going overboard. 

His _Jolly_ hated storms; she groaned around him utterly dissatisfied with their predicament. If the sea was part of his soul, the _Jolly Roger_ was his very own beating heart. He had loved her from the first moment he set eyes on her, all those years ago with Liam. Shipwrecked themselves, she had appeared to him, sitting docked peacefully in the calm bay, as a siren might appear to a drowning man. 

He needed her, and he would follow her to the depths of the sea if fate would have him do so. She was the only home he had ever known. She has seen him through his greatest joys and his deepest, darkest, most consuming pain. The hook in place of his left hand gleamed against the dark wheel, illuminated momentary by another crash of lightning. With that hook, he carried a piece of her with him, always. She was the only thing he needed. 

Another swell, the _Jolly_ listed dangerously starboard, curling into the waves intent on drowning her. His shoulders shook, head bent low to press against the force of the storm, hook and fingernails together dug into the wood of the wheel, the leather soles on his boots sliding slightly from the pressure of keeping his ship steady; grunting as he threw his weight against the wheel once more. 

Killian closed his eyes tight quickly, clearing them of the howling wind, salt stray and rain. Opening them to focus instead on the gouges he had scored in her wood, the first and only time he has ever hurt her intentionally. Navigational guides, a map of sorts which he had carved for a young lost lad who could have been his son if only... 

Killian closed his eyes tightly again. Storms always made him think of Baelfire. 

There seemed to be no end to this nightmare. Air darkly thick with salt and fear, quarterdeck lamps long ago extinguished to better navigate through the dim, the only light now came from the lightning guiding their way out of this watery hellscape. Their prey, a gallon, popped and bobbed ahead of them, tossed about as a childs playtoy in a pond. Sails heaving in a steady rhythm as they too rode the waves of the gale. 

Fear snarled in Killian’s gut, but he would not let her go down. No matter the energy draining out of him as the seconds ticked slowly by, no matter the heavy assaulting torrent pounding down on them. No matter the fearful acceptance on the faces of his crew, many who had stopped momentarily in their battle against the angry sea to offer a prayer to a God before heaving the rigging taunt again. 

_No_ , Killian thought as he strained against the pull of the ocean, _not today_. 

Time grew sluggish, the fingers on his right hand cold with wet and terror. Face determined, kohl darkening further the gleam in his eyes. _Not today,_ he thought again hardened with certainly, pouring every ounce of remaining strength into holding firm against the wheel. 

The _Jolly_ seemed to shudder underneath his feet, as a dog might shake water from its fur. Sails billowing together and snapping once more against the hold of the rigging. _Not today_ , she agreed. 

* * *

Her prison had started to take on water almost as soon as the first sea swell had crashed over the deck. 

Water swirled around her knees, her dress sodden and heavy. Tendrils of hair plastered to her face and neck, like frigid cold fingers reaching to drag her to the bottom of the sea. 

She would die here today. The ship creaked again as she cowered against the bars of her cage in the bowels of a pirate ship. 

A sob rose in her throat, but she caught it in time to force it back. _No_ , she thought bitterly, she would not waste her remaining time wallowing in self absorbed grief. If death did find her, curled alone in the brig of this Gods forsaken ship, she would not spend her final hours indulging in self pity. 

She thought of her parents. How proud they were of her for undertaking her first solo diplomatic envoy - a visit to Arendelle to welcome Princess Anna’s first born child. She wondered what they were doing at the moment, for it must be around late supper-time. Leo would no doubt be playing double sided chess - a game he claimed to have invented, though her father would tease it was only because he was a terrible loser. 

She let her thoughts drift to Elsa and Anna, her dear friends. They would not know what had become of her. No one would, yet. 

The loathsome captain, cruel eyes and an even crueler smile, had informed her when he pulled her onboard - fighting and clawing, spitting and screaming at him - her ship would be lost to davy jones locker. Would they believe her drowned on board _The First Snow_? A better fate indeed then the one having befell her. She hopes they do, tears pricking her eyes. She would much prefer to die on her mother's beloved flagship, then here in this wreck of a place. 

Shouting from far above her head clamored as the men thundered around through the hallways and upper decks. She could not make out what they were saying, angry and desperate sounding, but then came the unmistakable sound of cannon fire. 

The third boom was deafening, having struck the ship and she was pitched suddenly sideways. Head slammed against the crude metal bars, hands scrambling to find purchase and haul herself upwards out of the water which has now reached past her hips. A sharp sting on her left palm made her bite her lip, lifting her hand to her face to see in the dim light. A gash cut across her palm, blood weeping steadily down her arm. 

Another boom shook the hull. More water. More yelling. But this time, she strained to listen, more voices seemed to be involved. She screamed, joy crawling over her skin. They had found her - somehow, someway, they had come for her. 

Metal clashed closer to her now, the steady thudding of running feet thundered above her head, shouting and cursing, blades clashing together and the unmistakable silence of death. 

She shouted again, voice sounding faint to her own ears. She slugged through the now waist deep water, weighted down as she was by her skirts. She needed to get out of this cage before the water reached much higher. 

An answering shout echoed down the dark hallway towards her. A cry was all she could muster, clutching her injured hand against her chest and sobbing now, tears tracking down her cheeks as another shout joined the first. 

They had found her. She wouldn’t die alone in the dark today. Her mind rejoiced with this news, repeating a new hopeful mantra, _not today_. 


	2. Chapter Two

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

Chaos erupted by the fifth volly of cannon fire. Sections of the _Revenge’s_ hull exploded and flew like kindling into the night as the red-warm glow of the fire which had started on the forecastle with the first direct hit. Another blast rocked the ship under his feet, this time from the port side. The _Jolly_ circling the burning ship like a snapping illusive dragon; fire spewing from her guns in all directions. Her constant barrage illuminated the bridge of the _Revenge_ in a hellish orange glow. The crew of the captive ship scattered, shouting and disorganized; those who remained on deck were cut down swiftly by Killian’s men; time and experience together making the crew of the _Jolly Roger_ a formidable foe. 

Men spilled from the _Revenge_ into the sea, swallowed alive and flailing into the deep black depth. 

Relinquishing the helm to his quartermaster, Andersen, once the _Revenge_ was fully in their snare, Killian swung aboard the other ship, intent on hunting down her captain for himself. Four fallen crewmen later, the missing captain had still not been located, nor would any of his crew share his location. _No matter,_ Killian had thought, brandishing his cutlass at a deckhand with two daggers, he would find the bastard if it meant he torched this ship, and every one after her. 

Killian parried and attacked, never taking his eyes off his opponent’s blades, metal gleaming in the dim. His body exhausted from the perilous fight through the storm over the last few hours, he found a fresh reserve of power - a reserve intended to dole out retribution on those who wronged him and his crew.

Swiping to the right before finally spearing the crazed-eyed man with his cutlass and kicking him swiftly off the blade; Killian turned his back to the gunwale, collecting his breath for a moment before vaulting onto the helm - long leather coat flaring out behind him, shining black against the night. 

The storm rolled on behind them, picking up momentum over the expensive sea, leaving in her wake an utter calm. Eerie after so many hours of toil; the water now tranquil as a mill pond as the _Jolly_ continued her predatory circling. The noise was spectacular, the booming and creaking of the barraged hull under him as his crew set forth another round of cannon fire from the starboard guns. Andersen was an excellent hunter, they would take her down soon enough. 

Over the constant keening of the wood all around him, Killian picked up the shouting of his men and they carved their way below deck. He waited another few moments, unwilling to go below until the upper deck was cleared. Sheathing his cutlass, Killian pulled a pistol from a holster on his lower back and kicked the hatch to the captain’s quarters open with the toe of his boot. Weapon aimed in front of him, hook raised and ready, he quickly slipped down the steep stairs and landed in a pile of unkempt clothes which had obviously ransacked in a hurry. 

Eyes scanned the dim room, lit intermittently by the near constant bombardment from the _Jolly’s_ guns. Papers and maps littered the desk and unmade bed. Empty. There was no one here. Hadn’t been for awhile if the decaying meal on a chipped porcelain plate was anything to go by. 

Killian swore under his breath, tossing the mattress and finding little in the way of loot. Angry now, he lashed out and kicked the small table, over-ending it and sending the discarded dinner setting smashing into the wall. 

Pulling the door of the cabin open, he stood to the side of the narrow hallway as several members of his crew dashed passed. His first mate, a mountain of a man named John Cowley, took up the rear of the group, stopping to update Killian on the assault, they would clear the holds of goods and be back on the _Jolly_ in an hour, two tops as long as Blackbeard didn't have something else up his sleeve.

A shot rang out below him, from the very bowels of the ship. Likely a lock broken, as his men favoured hand to hand combat over awkward firearms; especially in close quarters where the margin for error was narrowed considerably. 

Killian stood for another few moments, breathing in the last breaths of a dying ship, smoke burning his nostrils, filling his lungs. It was a victory to be sure, but a hollow one. His hunt would start again, chasing the scourge of a man across this realm once more. 

He turned back, ready to climb the ladder back to the top deck, when he stopped; hesitating. Something wasn’t right, Killian could feel it in his bones. He hadn’t been alive this long without developing an acute survival instinct, and it was screaming at him now. He was missing something. Something important… _something..._

* * *

Water sloshed against her chest as shivering racked her entire frame, stress and fear shaking her hands so hard it was all she could do to hold onto the rough bars on her cage. A second voice - another man - joined the first and a light at the doorway flickered. Bloodstained and large, they filled the doorway. 

These were not men sent to save her. 

Emma pushed away from the bars, backing up against the hull, palm stinging enough to bring tears to eyes as the gash touched the rancid water around her. 

The smaller of the two men nodded towards her, muttering something to the second man and started moving slowly closer through the water. The second man turned and shouted down the passageway, though his words were drowned out by the keening of the ship and bellowing of death above her, before moving away. 

“You’re alright, lass.” His voice was kind, rough from shouting. He spoke slowly, as if speaking to a cornered wild thing. She simply nodded - unable to form words apart from wordless cries that, try as she might, she could not contain any longer. 

“Just hold on a moment longer, we’ll get you free.” he rumbled again, running his hands up and down the vertical bars, from his chest to hip, searching for the padlock holding her in. She nodded again, stronger this time, a jerking motion causing her hair to swirl across the water’s surface, now reaching almost at her shoulder blades. 

A shadow filled the doorway once again heralding the return of the second man, pistol held above the water. 

“Find it?” he asked, addressing the smaller man when he finally slogged his way over to them. Emma stayed plastered against the wooden wall, freezing as she was in the salty water swirling around her. Her teeth rattled together. 

“Aye, it’s here.” The smaller man pointed straight down to where the lock obviously sat. 

“Right, stand back lass.” And he addressed her now, face lost to the darkness, voice deep and steady. She shrank back further into the corner, sliding along the wall, feet uncertain, the skirts of her dress pulling around her feet threatening to overpower her and drag her down. 

It was a clean shot. The first man reached into the water and tossed the lock aside, opening the gate and reaching for her. Her feet faltered then, relief and exhaustion at war inside of her, and he reached out, snagging her towards him, grunting under the heavy pull of her dress. 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around her waist and heaving her towards the door. 

Another boom rocked the ship, causing Emma to cry out in fear.  
“Bloody Andersen, he could at least wait till we’re off before sinking ‘er.” The second man grumbled in annoyance from ahead of her, sword drawn tight at his side, a formidable shadow in this hell of a place.

They were hauling her, shivering and heavy-limbed up a set of steep stairs, stairs which she had been yanked down without care days ago, when another blast rocked the ship yet again. Emma screamed as her body jerked, head slamming into the wall. The man yelled after her, desperate calls of “lass!” met her ears from what seemed a great distance before everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday!!


	3. Chapter Three

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

In the end, there wasn't much on board worth salvaging, a few trunks and several bags of coin - standard fair. The crew made fast work of that, and it hadn't taken more than a quarter hour to transfer the goods from the Revenge to the lower hold on the _Jolly_.

"Captain Jones!" Cowley's voice rang clear in the now quiet night, cannons having stopped their unrelenting assault, the soft crack-hissing of the still smoldering fire from the Revenge's forecastle popping in the background.

Killian turned, giving the first mate his undivided attention. John Cowley had been with him since the beginning; a bosun under Liam's command - Killian named him first mate the day they buried his brother at sea. John was an excellent sailor, a ruthless pirate and an officer still - all these many years later. He had had a wife once, a pretty young lass, as Killian remembered, far back in his memory. She died of fever while they were in Neverland. John had never truly forgiven himself for not being there with her when she passed. He stood here now, at attention, an officer bearing shining through the layers of smoke dust, grim and blood. "We're missing Milton and Hayes, sir."

"Get her ready to set sail, I'll find them." Killian replied and turned to nod at Andersen, relinquishing the helm once more. He moved across the wide gangplank connecting the two ships, the _Revenge_ now resting heavily on her port side. He took the stairs two at a time, the creaking of the hull ominous in the dark hallway.

"Hayes!" He called for the bosun, ears straining against the crackling of wood.

"Captain!" Hayes' muffled voice came from below his feet, down another level in the main hold. More muffled voices "...down here." A yelped curse and a scuttling sound carried down the passageway. Killian started forward towards the sound, fist clenching in tension around the hilt of his cutlass; he hated this blasted, bloody ship. What could possibly be taking them so long? Treasure perhaps? Milton could never pass up a good haul.

He found the two men, fighting through a pile of sodden cloth, an unconscious woman held between them, pushing and pulling her up the ladder. "We found her, sir." Hayes explained through clenched teeth, clearly exhausted from struggling with her from God's knew where. "In the brig." Milton offered, face bloodstained and covered in the grim of battle.

"Is she dead?" Killian asked, voice hard as his eyes raked across her pale face, her hair clumped like the tendrils of a kraken. Glancing lower; taking in the heavy, sodden dress streaked red with fresh blood. The dress was expensive, heavy layers of silk which were weighing his bosun down as the man attempted to hoist her higher in his grip on the sloping stairs.

"Not yet." Milton spoke finally, hauling her up the final rung of the ladder, his arms under her armpits, face sweating. Killian's irritation rose, suddenly like a snapping impatient beast, as he watched his men struggling with their ward. They collapsed her on the passageway floor, hair plastered to her neck, head lolling to the side. He issued an irritated curse and tipped the point of his hook under the front laces of her gown, ripping the ties loose and freeing her from the heavy weight of the dress - a weight which would surely drown her. His men stood awkwardly for a moment before kneeing to shuck the pool of fabric off her prone form, leaving her in a dirty cotton shift.

"There," he stood back up, "take her. Quickly." added, snarling.

Relieved finally of their awkward burden, Milton knelt and gently scoped up the woman, striding down the passage back up to the deck while Hayes gathered the massive ploom of textile in his arms and hurried back to the Jolly, head down as he passed the captain.

Killian followed the two men, unhurried this time, exuding an air of irritated indifference as he joined the crew on the deck of the Jolly Roger, watching from the corner of his eye as Milton grasp the women tightly to himself; whether in possession or protectiveness, Killian could not decide.

One thing he did know was that having a woman on a ship was tricky business. Especially an unconscious woman who was, up to less than an hour ago, a prisoner on your enemy's vessel. There was nothing else for it really, he heaved an internal sigh.

"Cowley." he snarled, loud enough for the crew scattered across the deck to hear him.

"Yes, sir?"

"It seems we have an uninvited guest." he nodded at Milton, watching closely as the man's fingers tightened minutely on the woman. "Ensure she finds her way to my cabin, I am placing you in charge of her for the time being." His first mate nodded, walking quickly to the deckhand and relieving him of his bundle. Milton passed her over reluctantly - Killian noted - with a scowl towards the quarterdeck.

That business attended to, Killian bellowed several orders in quick succession, cannons firing again as the gunners once again took positions across the port side, the gangplank of the Revenge kicked overboard and the crew plunged back into the organized chaos of war once again.

* * *

They had left her to drown, burning as they cast off, a bright vision against the darkened night sky until the sea swallowed her.

The storm had left behind the smell of rain, heavy and thick in the air. Gulls cried and curled above their heads, grey kite-like forms diving into the wake of the ship for fish pulled up by the vessel as she cut through the water. There was land nearby then, Killian mused, hand back on the familiar wheel, resting now that the adrenaline from the storm had passed through his system. His thoughts turned to the women they had, he choked on the word as it left an unfamiliar feeling around his heart, rescued. If there was indeed land nearby, perhaps she was from there. Blackbeard and his crew were not exactly particular when it came to procuring entertainment. They might have found her, the quality of the dress suggested perhaps a governor's daughter or wife, and snatched her for fun or ransom.

And now she was his responsibility. _Excellent_. What he truly wanted at the moment was to sleep, muscles in his shoulders and down his back trembled with exhaustion and left over adrenaline. But with this added complication, women tended to be rather touchy about being kidnapped by pirates - twice, he knew it would likely be hours yet. She might be awake by now, though he doubted that very much, the cold and stress of not only the battle but her time with the crew from the _Revenge_ would have taken a toll on her system,

The cook, a small perpetually worried man named William Smee, scurried across the deck towards him, stopping at the stairs to the quarterdeck, silently asking permission to join his captain.

Killian nodded towards the man, hand and hook never leaving the wheel. Smee rushed up to greet him, hands fumbling to remove the slouchy hat perched on top of his head. Smee was an interesting fellow. Cowardly by all appearances, he could be tremendously brave when the occasion called for it. An officer he certainly wasn't, he was not much of a sailor - even now, 200 or so years later. But he was a hell of a cook - and had a cheery disposition which sat well with the rest of the crew.

"Captain, sir? Will you be dining below deck this evening?"

"No. I will be retiring to my quarters shortly. See there is enough sent up for our guest should she awaken." He dismissed the man with an incline of his head, and waited until the cook's red knitted hat had disappeared down the ladder to the galley below deck before letting out a long quiet sigh.

The moon hung low, light shining off the water. So different a night now than a mere two hours ago when the world was angry and he fought furiously against death once more. The ship settled into a normal rhythm with the sea. Her sails billowing gently now, no longer straining against their hold on the ropes. The Jolly relaxed, he could almost feel her sigh of relief that the storm was behind them. She had always spoken to him, though he had never shared that with another sole. Whatever enchantment rang through her, it ran through him as well.

Killian was relieved at long last by his night helmsman, a stout man with greying hair - hair which had been greying since Killian had met him, long before Milah had died, in a port town of ill repute. He had been a beggar then, huddled against an outbuilding, hiding from the biting wind, but had jumped in to assist Milah when a street youth tried to rob her. She could handle herself - and did, frequently - but Killian was grateful all the same and offered the man a place on his crew. 

“Good night, Captain.” 

“Thank you, Burr.” He swept off the quarterdeck and descended the steep ladder through the hatch, anticipation and something else, something he hadn’t felt in a very long long time, running through his veins.

* * *

She was asleep, curled tightly on the bunk. Cowley had covered her with whatever blankets he could find, lighting several lanterns around the room as well, which was a kind gesture - considering his men had found her alone, half drowned in the dark. 

A quiet knock on the door announced the arrival of both her ruined dress and their supper. He shook out the garment - knowing it was likely beyond salvaging to its original state - and hung it on a peg by the door. A deckhand, fairly new to his crew, handed him a tray, bowed his head quickly and scuttled away. Killian closed the door softly, placed the tray on the desk, selected the seat furthest away from his guest and started eating, slowly, making notes in his log, casting small glances back at her as he worked. 

The hour was late now, the lantern on his desk burned an hour lower, he yawned, chair legs scraping slightly against the floorboards. The room fell quiet for a minute before a faint rustling and small pain filled moan caught his attention, and he shifted in his seat, head bent over his work again, making small but noticeable noises to ensure he did not startle her - at least, no more than she was going to be already.

She sat up slowly, one hand keeping a fierce grip on the covers as she moved. Killian kept working, allowing her a small amount of privacy to collect herself. 

Her hair had dried, somewhat matted, into golden waved tendrils around her face. The rest of her features were obscured in the low light, but the shadow across her cheek seemed far more pronounced here in the relative safety of his cabin then it had been when he had seen her below the deck of the _Revenge_. She hadn’t seemed to notice him yet, instead her attention focused on the array of windows lining the backside of the room, below which the bunk rested. She clutched the blanket tighter, a shiver racking her small frame.

“You’re awake,” a strong clipped voice came from the other side of the room. Emma turned, grip tightening even further. She met his eyes, dark rimmed and deep blue, narrowed slightly in contemplation of her. “And alive.” He added pushing the chair back slightly from the desk, the journal laid open before him, abandoned for now. She said nothing, watching him uneasily. 

“You have nothing to fear from me, lass.” he muttered, raising his left arm from his knee to rest it on the table. A gleam of metal caught her attention. She had heard tales of this man - many boarding on myth. _Captain Hook._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know by cannon, Smee is Killian's first mate, but... I just cant you guys. So I made him a cook, which I think suits him better.


	4. Chapter Four

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

She had heard his story - or at least - what was passed along as his story.

Ruthless. Savage. A heartless hunter who pillaged and brought down a rain of destruction in his wake. They said he was immortal - that he could not be killed. Part devil, that hell itself spat him back out. She hadn't believed any of it really, it was absurd. She had passed the slanderous talk off as whispered gossip from the ladies of the court. They had said he was a handsome - they were right on that score - a feral type of man. Emma had not exactly understood what they meant; they likely didn't quite know either. But anytime a violent storm blew into the harbour, and the birds went quiet; they had blamed him and his demon crew.

She watched him watch her. The way he seemed to lounge disinterested in the chair, eyes darkened with an air of patient indifference. Did he know who she was? She swallowed. Perhaps. She had been so desperate to escape her watery, darkened tomb that she had given no thought to the intentions of her 'rescuers'.

Now, sitting alone, half dressed and injured, with a man she had only heard grim tales of, in the belly of yet another pirate ship, her previous overwhelming relief at the actions of the two men in the brig seemed naïve and utterly shortsighted.

She sat up straighter, shifting slightly to pull the covers more firmly over herself. Her mother had been a firm believer that when outnumbered and outmatched, a tough façade could bully you through a lot of situations. Although, Emma mused fleetingly, she doubted her mother had ever been kidnapped twice in a row by pirates.

Her head pounded and her entire body ached. She was likely bruised significantly from being tossed around in the brig during the worst of the storm. She had eventually managed to wedge herself into the corner and brace against the turbulent pitch and yaw of the ship until the water level had made this strategy impossible. Her stomach rolled, with fear or hungry, she didn't know which, as she silently watched him.

He still had not moved. Hook resting menacingly on the table near a try of food, a bottle of wine sat unopened next to his arm.

Closing her eyes involuntarily, she swayed slightly. Exhaustion getting the best of her, finally, after countless days alone in the dark. Her palm stung, blood crusting along the edges, pulling slightly at the cut as she tried to keep her trembling to a minimum.

* * *

Silence hung thickly between them, broken only by the softly familiar creaking of the ship.

Recognition and fear flashed across her face before she schooled her features. It was fleeting, but he saw it all the same. Killian swallowed back a frustrated growl. Frightening her further wouldn't help anyone. He let her stare at him for several moments. Watched her sag slightly, body exhausted. Enough. This wasn't going to get them anywhere. A stalemate with a random woman was not what he had planned on for this evening. He needed sleep as much as she did - likely more. So the sooner they could sort out who she was and what she had been doing to end up in the brig of the Revenge, the better. Perhaps he could drop her off at a port tomorrow, with a few coins she would likely be able to find her way back home.

Killian cleared his throat, scratching uncomfortably behind his ear - he wasn't used to feeling off balance, especially around women. But there was something profoundly open about the look in her eyes as she watched him, huddled defiantly in his bed, hair a mess with a one-handed death grip on the covers. She was at once both defensive and an open book - it was a fascinating combination, one he had never come across before. Most women fell into two categories for him. Those that desired him, reputation aside for whatever reason. And those who avoided him for the same reason.

"I'm afraid your gown is likely beyond salvageable," he stood slowly, turning towards the small wardrobe he rooted around at the bottom of an abandoned drawer. He produced a long , warm robe which had belonged to Milah - he had never been able to be rid of anything of hers - and held it out to the blonde woman, nodding at the garment. She eyed him warily before reaching out with her free hand to snag the fabric.

"Wait," he commanded, quickly snagging her wrist with his hook. "You're hurt, let me see."

"No, it's fine."

It certainly was not fine, the gash was large and jagged, cutting across her palm, red and inflamed. Not a blade, something much more primitive had given her this wound. He said nothing, instead leaned over to grab his flask off of the small table beside them, uncorked it neatly with his teeth and sloshed the liquid liberally over her palm. She hissed and tried to pull away.

"What was that!?" she hissed, fingers curling protectively in his hold, eyes wide and accusatory.

"Rum, and a bloody waste of it." He answered, inspecting the swollen skin. It would heal, slowly, but cleanly now nonetheless. A small scarf on the ledge behind them caught his attention. Perfect. And he wound it slowly, carefully around her hand, biting the end of the scarf briefly, tightening it to her, all the while watching her face intently. Her breath caught, he was so close to her, eyes locked on hers. It was frighteningly intimate.

"How long were you imprisoned?" He asked, standing once more to recap the flask and give her a measure of space again, arms crossing over his chest, charms tinkering quietly from around his neck as he moved.

"I don't-" She cleared her throat. "I don't know. It was dark and…" she trailed off, hand gesturing limply, eyes glazing over with unshed tears that she quickly tried to blink away.

He watched her for a moment longer. "How many meals did they give you?"

"Two."

"A week then, maybe a day less." he muttered, striding towards the door again, cracking it open and exchanging a few words to someone on the other side before clicking it shut again and resuming his study of her.

They were interrupted by a quiet knock. Killian opened the door, and a small man with a red cap came quickly into the room, eyes on the pitcher of fresh water he was carrying. "Thank you, Smee. That is all."

The man nodded, side eying the woman quickly before scuttling out once more.

"Come, eat."

Emma eyed him carefully. He offered her a small smile. "You must be hungry." She nodded and drew the robe over herself awkwardly before lowering the blankets and placing a tentative foot on the smooth wood floor, toes curling instinctively at the cold. She stood, testing her balance before stepping forward to pull the second chair back, wincing at the cut on her palm.

Killian sat as well, picking up the bottle of wine and pouring two glasses, he offered her one, fingers grazing hers when he accepted it carefully, clearly unsure whether to trust him. He picked his goblet up and took a large mouthful, eyes never leaving hers. She nodded quickly, embarrassment colouring her cheeks slightly, and took a small sip.

* * *

The wine was lovely, it blurred the worries of her mind slightly and took the edge off her discomfort. He had seemed to understand, strangely, her hesitation with the offer. Taking a large gulp of the beverage, eyebrows lifting slightly - teasing almost - as if they were taunting her, not poisoned then. Not that she really expected it to be - why rescue her to simply kill her. But then why kidnap her to simply throw her in a cage in the dark? She shook her head, tiredness gripping her once again.

"I understand you have had a trying day, darling." he spoke, voice lilting over the words at first, "And most of what I need to know will keep until tomorrow," he sat forward suddenly, pushing his way into her space, causing a spike of fear to travel up and down her spine and she pressed herself into the back of the chair. His eyes widened and his hook came to rest lightly on her knee. "but I do need to know one thing."

Emma swallowed the mouthful of crusty roll she had been quietly chewing, and nodded. "What is that?" she whispered, fear making her voice jumpy. He snarled at her then, voice low and threatening. 

"Where is Blackbeard?"


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you to everyone who is reading this! Thank you for your comments (I truly love them soooo much) and the kudos!! This has been so much fun to write so far - and I'm exited for where this is going!

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

It had been a peaceful morning on the open sea - their fourth day of the long voyage to Arendelle - when the _Snow's_ barrelman, a man with kind eyes and bright red hair, bellowed from the crows nest down to those on the deck, "Sail! Sail!". There was a scattering of activity and a general sense of tension as her captain pulled out his spyglass and investigated the declaration through narrowed eyes. She watched the officers on the quarterdeck, worry murmurs and fervent glances towards her peeking her attention.

Emma climbed the stairs after debating for a moment. Truly only those invited onto the bridge, or who held a rank to guarantee them access, were permitted to climb those stairs.

She had learned that as a child, sitting in rapt attention as a general in her father's navy explained the inner workings on board a ship. It had all sounded magical and gallant, exploring new lands and meeting new people. Ships, the elderly general had said - in a rather low voice - had no masters. They were a world unto themselves. They were born for the seas and they breathed and lived and flourished on them as no other vessel could. Only people who knew to quiet their minds and hearts could unite with them. He had winked at Leo and herself then, making them both giggle in fascination, and breaking the strange spell which had fallen over the quiet room.

Her parents had believed in an equal education for her and her brother - for which Emma was always grateful. Her mother had been given a "ladies education" as a child, which had made her life after banishment, on the run from the evil Queen Regina, more complicated and much harder than it needed to have been. Emma learned the fundamentals of navigation, sword fighting and how to hunt. She had also been taught how to lead - though she had never needed to before.

Emma set her hand on the top of the gunwale, fingers tracing the grain of the wood as she climbed the half dozen stairs to meet the officers of her ship.

The Captain, a middle-aged man named Lewis with dark brown eyes and sharp scar across his neck, which his scarf tie never quite seemed to hide, bowed to her, and swallowed before turning his instrument over once more, handing it to his first mate and smiling at her. "Of course, Princess. These are trading waters, passing company is to be expected."

_He was lying._

Emma turned as well to squint across the sun-soaked water ahead of them. The sails of the other ship coming more into view each passing moment.

"Crimson sails!" came another bellow from above their heads, the barrelman having abandoned his post to scamper down the set of ropes to help the rest of the crew hoist a faster sail.

 _Crimson sails_. Emma's heart ticked up a notch. _Pirates_. Pirates flew crimson sails. It was a warning, she shut her eyes to remember the quiet voice of the general as he gave them an ominous lesson on pirates. A crimson sail was a warning. _Surrender_ , Emma opened her eyes again her breathing shallow, _or die_.

"Pirates, Captain. They're gaining on us - we can't outrun them," she said practically, voice steadier than she expected; the cold reality of their near future bitter on her tongue. "Not with this ship, it's not fast enough."

The captain took a long breath. An impossible situation sat before him. A royal flagship which was more a decoration then a battle cruiser, a princess and a crew of two dozen men. Surrender surely meant death as much as resistance did, and how could he possibly consider surrender when the life his monarch lay in his hands. Emma watched the decision finalize on his face. They would die then, defending her and the Snow.

"Princess," he addressed her, "we cannot outrun them, but we might still be able to negotiate with them. However," he bowed to her, worry etched on his face, "we cannot allow them to know you are onboard."

She nodded in agreement, hands sweaty. The crew did stand a chance of bartering their lives with the gifts in the hold. The ship was of no great value, it was old - commissioned before she had been born -built for comfort, not for speed or agility on the water. Before turning back to the stairs, she addressed the men on the helm, giving them direction to use whatever valuables the ship had in order to secure their lives. She would be hiding below deck, in the bilge tank hold. They wouldn't likely discover her there. She fled to her cabin, and started packing away personal items which would identify her. The men on the other ship would likely know what vessel this was, and expect some type of plunder from it, but hopefully not a person of interest.

Bags and personal items now safety stored under the hidden platform of the bunk, she ran down the narrow passageways to the bilge room, heavy skirts tugging at her heels. Oh, how she wished she had more time, she would much prefer to be wearing her breeks and leather riding coat - easier for both fighting and fleeing. She had no time to locate her small knife, buried as it had been in her luggage - a gift from Leo on her sixteenth birthday.

Emma flung the door on the store room shut and squeezed herself into the corner behind two of the large barrels. Her dress was an issue, but she also had no desire to take it off, though it would be easier to hide without the rich cream coloured fabric shimmering around her. No, she thought as she tucked herself in tighter and tried in vain to make herself smaller. She'd rather face a pirate crew fully clothed then in a light summer shift…

* * *

In the end, it hadn't mattered how hard she tried to hide. They had found her, dragged her; screaming and fighting, nails biting into faces and limbs, onto the deck. They had tossed her across the varnished wood, landing hard on her hands, knees banging into the deck. Her crew had fought - there was blood everywhere - but the mismatch group of dirty rugged men had bested them. A young deckhand called out to her suddenly; they had tied him taunt against the mast, along with several other battered members of her kingdom's naval crew. There was no sign of the captain nor could she spot, from her prone position on the ground, and officers. Tears stung her eyes. And she fought against the hard heel of a boot pressing into the small of her back.

"No no no, poppet, none of that now," a ragged voice above her teased. She glanced upward as far as she could, but his face was obscured. His large bedraggled beard catching the sun's rays and hiding his face in shadow.

"I demand-" she started and the boot left her back swiftly to kick her hard in the side. She had not expected the blow and the force of it shocked her. Emma had never been struck before, save for unintentional glancing blows during sparring sessions.

"You are not in the position to make demands, my dear." The man sneered again. "Take her onboard! Let's see if a fortnight in the brig can teach you some manners, pretty girl." he sneered the last part of the sentence through clenched teeth after yelling to his rowdy crew; a warning and a promise.

Rough hands groped at her, pulling her roughly upwards and forcing her towards the gangplank to the other ship. She balked, twisting and fighting; more instinctual than anything else. Every fiber of her body knew she should not go peacefully onto that vessel, for if she did, she would not survive. Fear clawed at her, a sharp terrible creature exploding in her chest. Her heart raced as they force-marched her across the wooden slats, her feet unsure and skittish. 

They had thrown her without care of ceremony into the dark after dragging her down ladder and across wet floorboards. The grate banged shut and a padlock clicked into place. The had mocked her, hands pulling at her hair and clothes. Cruel taunts and disgusting threats hung over her as they had crowded in on her. Somewhat thankful, in the end, for the cage they had put her in, Emma pressed herself against the outer wall of the ship, ears straining for some kind of indication as to what was happening above.

After a while, possible an hour or two later, her prison lurched forward, the unmistakable sound of an anchor lifting from the depths and the pounding of several heavy feet above her. They were away.

* * *

Killian watched her; eyes glassy and breathing shallow. She had flinched away from him, and that small action had bothered him. It shouldn't have - she was of little consequence to either himself or his crew. She was a complication he would rather not have, but still - something about her, small and scared across from him, made him regret his tone and the intention behind the veiled threat of his invasion of her space, his hook on her knee. The poor woman had endured a number of offenses upon her person over the last several days. Shame rippled under his skin, unpleasant and ill-tasting. He pushed them down, the burning across his heart deepening even greater at the attempt to cast it aside.

He needed information, and she was possibly his last link to finding what was taken from him.

She came back to herself, eyes focusing on him once more.

"Who is that?" she whispered.

"Blackbeard," he started, leaning away from her to reach for the wine again and nodding to the table pointedly. She needed to eat. "Is the bastard of a captain who commanded the ship we found you on. The _Queen Anne's Revenge._ "

"Oh," she replied, watching him under her lashes and she reached carefully for a slice of cured ham - as if waiting for him to pounce on her and carve her apart with his hook - injured hand curled against the soft fabric, protectively.

He filled both glasses again, topping hers even though she had hardly touched the liquid. It was distracting watching her in Milah's robe. He had untied it countless times, ran his hands - both of them, he thought bitterly - across her hips and nipped her neck. He had watched it pool at her feet when she teased him, usually after a long day, she has always allowed him to lose himself in her for a while. They had been free in this cabin together, and suddenly seeing another woman in her clothes was disconcerting. The distance of 200 years seemed suddenly a lot closer, and far too real.

"I don't know what happened to him. I didn't see him again after he tossed me onto the deck and ordered me taken away into the dark." she continued, nibbling slowly on her food. "The men were dirty, there was one - I didn't really see him... he kicked me…" she trailed off, eyes cast downwards again. Killian waited, blood rushing in his ears, Blackbeard was a bastard, if there was anyone who would drag a woman onto deck and beat her in front of her crew and his, Blackbeard was that man.

"Go on, lass." he said softly, jaw clenching tightly.

"He had a large beard, and he wore a wide brimmed red hat. I didn't see much else besides that. I'm sorry."

_Bastard. That was him._


	6. Chapter Six

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

Their meal had been taken in unexpected companionable silence.

He hadn't said anything after she had described the man who had hurt her, flung down on the deck of her own ship, but by the way his jaw jumped and twitched sporadically knew he must be thinking about her tale. The rest of her story had poured out of her, unsure at first, she had meant to pass herself off as perhaps a dutchess, or a princess of a small, inconsequential land. But, as she progressed through the tale of how she ended up on that Gods forsaken boat ( _ship_ , he had muttered under his breath - the only word he had uttered since she had started speaking) it became more and more complicated to disguise her identity in a way which would make her story believable. And in the end, she had gathered her courage yet again, and told him her name.

To his credit, the only reaction he displayed outwardly was to raise his eyebrows and tilt his head back a touch; it gave her the nudge she needed to tell the rest.

When she finished, hand absently reaching for her wine, and polishing off the liquid quickly, she had picked some more at her meal, until the silence had leveled out and become comfortable. She was famished.

Several times, Emma had raised her gaze to find him half watching her, fingers fiddling with the small knife on the tray, before slicing off a wedge of cheese or meat, breaking whatever spell had fallen over the room.

It must have been the exhaustion, the stress of not only this last horrible several hours, but the last week or so in the cage, all bearing down on her. The sheer horribleness of her predicament squelched for a moment in the calm peace of the warm cabin, candles burning low and steady.

It was vasty different from the last vessel she had been on... 

* * *

The lamp on the table between them burned low, the sea was calm and the gentle rocking of the waves was lulling the pair to sleep as they both sat exhausted.

Killian scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe the day away. She had told him what had happened starting from when her crew had first spotted the Revenge on the horizon. She had kept her expression guarded, though she spoke softly, mouth set in a firm line, eyes hard. Tough lass. Her crew was lost. Her mother's beloved ship was gone.

 _Emma_. The name floated peacefully through his body, as a sigh of contentment might, and settled around his heart, warming his chest and seeming to expand his lungs. It was disconcerting, and he cleared his throat in a vain attempt to expel the uncomfortable feeling.

She had introduced herself; Crown Princess of Misthaven. _Which was just fucking excellent_. Not only was he now responsible for her, but she was bloody royalty. She had been reluctant to tell him, to reveal herself - not that he blamed her, but in the end, as her story unfolded, it became clear there were details missing. She shared them finally; chin raised - looking every bit a haughty princess.

He stood, chair scratching back across the floor, and stepped behind her to release the latch on a small adjoining room, originally intended for a cabin boy when his _Jolly_ sailed as the _Jewel of the Realm_. He now used it primarily for storage; though the built-in bunk which had not been altered. It was small, but otherwise serviceable, and it would do for the night.

"Here, Princess" he gestured to her, "you may use this room for the time being."

Emma stood, keeping the chair between them, and looked nervously over this outstretched arm. "You want me to stay in here, with you?" Her eyebrows crept high on her forehead, eyes wide and incredulous.

"Aye."

"I can't to that-"

"It's here or in the main cabin room, Princess." He replied, patience waning. "The crew won't bother you, you have my word on that account; so if you prefer, I'll show you to it. But decide now as the hour is late." he finished the sentence between clenched teeth, pulling himself up to his full height by force of habit.

She said nothing. Chin still raised, eyes locked on the small room, hidden in darkness beyond the reach of the candle light.

"Well?" He demanded. Gods he was tired.

"Thank you, this room is fine."

"Glad to hear it." he muttered stepping away to allow her space to explore her new surroundings, right hand working the closures and pulling his vest free from his chest.

"May I have my gown, please?" Emma's face flamed scarlet and she would not look at him, instead fiddling with the robe sleeve again. He rolled his eyes and pulled it from it's hanging place on the peg by the door. "It's still wet." he groused, holding the damp heavy garment out to her.

"Thank you, Captain," she held the dress to her chest, nodded to him and stepped into the room, closing the door softly. He stood motionless for a moment, eyes locked on the now closed door across the room.

* * *

The room was plunged into darkness as soon as she closed the door, the small porthole window high up on the one wall not large enough to offer any usable amount of light. She stood quietly for a moment, allowing her residual panic at the sudden plunge into darkness to recede, giving her eyes time to adjust. Finally, she stepped over to the small bunk and sat, gathering her ruined dress close, running her fingers across the sleeve, feeling the thick stitching bump under her fingers. Leo had stitched this for her - after having ripped the dress by accident while chasing her through the garden. He had been sorry, knowing how much she had loved the garment.

A sob caught in her throat and she placed a hand quickly over the mouth to muffle a cry. What would happen to her? Her parents would likely still be unaware of the fate of the Snow and their daughter. Her father would blame himself - as he had suggested the outing, a means of diversion and of "getting her out and about a bit" he had said with a sad smile. The debacle of her ill fated engagement still fresh wounds her parents were tending. She had built a wall around the hurt anger and betrayal, kept it contained as best she could; smiling when her mother looked at her, hoping to soothe the sting of failure both her parents still obviously felt.

Emma ran a hand through her hair, working the many tangles out as best she could, breathing deeply again as the darkness of the small cabin overwhelmed her once more. Her hands worked through the several layers of fabric, searching for the small pocket Granny had insisted needed to be sewn on all of her gowns "just in case something happens". As was usually the case, Granny had been right and as she hunkered down, scared and alone in the bilge room, she had had enough time to secure her small charm necklace, the one her parents had given her on her sixteenth birthday, into that small pocket. It had survived, she smiled softly as her fingers tightened around it - hesitating a moment before puling it out and pressing it to the skin on her chest under the rode which had belonged to a woman who had lived here. A mystery for another day. Emma fumbled with the clasp and once she had it secured, stood, hand reaching tentatively out along the wall, searching for a hook or peg to keep her dress until the morning.

A crash from her left froze her in place. What was that? The room was so dark there was no way to know for sure unless she opened the door, and she didn't want to do that unless pressed. . Maybe her roommate hadn't heard, maybe-

"Princess?"

Damn it.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you." she rushed, "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"What broke?" his exasperated voice rattled again from the other side of the heavy wooden door.

Emma closed her eyes, annoyed.

"I am not sure. It's dark."

A moment later he knocked and opened the door without invitation, standing in the doorway, bare chested and irritated with a lantern hanging from his hook; she took a step quickly back as he entered her space, ready to shout and fight him. He paid her little mind, instead reaching high above her head and dropping the lantern on a chain from the ceiling.

"Good night, Princess." he bowed, a bit more sarcastically then was strictly necessary, and closed the door behind him, leaving her bathed in a flickering light instead of the painful darkness which has held her for days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is it December already?? 
> 
> Happy Tuesday, everyone!


	7. Chapter Seven

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

Dawn had cracked through the porthole window hours earlier and had been accompanied by the sounds of the ship waking above her. Muffled shouts and laughter rang out over the dull roar of the ocean under them. Emma pushed herself up; body reluctant to leave the warmth of her first comfortable bed in days.

_It was cold, so very very cold. Seeping into her; dark ink into fresh parchment, slowly at first then quicker until it saturated her senses. The darkness swallowed her, pitch black and suffocating hot. Blurry figures at the doorway. The clink of a key in a lock. Rough hands pulling her upright. Water everywhere, swirling around her feet with the pitch and roll of the angry sea around her. Thunder boomed, angry and wretched, tossing the ship without care. Fear, coiling colder the water now at her knees. Hours it went on. Feet planted against the wall, hands curled into the bars, grasping for purchase. More shouting from above. Her memory burned, flashes of a time years ago. Before… a small boat on a lake. Silence then shouting. She had been cold then too. So very cold._

Gasping, she shook her head, wrenching herself away from the flashes of memory. The spun linen of the bedsheets rough against her palms; anchoring her in the present. Sunlight of the morning illuminated the small room; reflections danced across the ceiling. The lantern above her was long buried away, it swayed softly. She watched it as the wooden walls of the ship seemed to sigh in contentment around her. Emma remembered again the words of her father's general all those years ago. Ships spoke to you - if you only listened. _What was this one trying to say to her? Was she safe here?_ The ship heaved across the crest of a wave, settling again once the swell had passed. Another sigh.

"I'm listening," she whispered; placing her palm lightly on the wood, closing her eyes.

A light thump following a soft flutter caught her attention. Her dress. She rose to pick it up and turned it over in her hands.

The laces on her gown were ripped - yet how they had become that way, she was unsure - so there was nothing else to do except to tie the tattered pieces together as best she could, and hope they held.

She dressed swiftly, the garment heavy with grim and still slightly damn; the smell of her time the brig wafting faintly from it. The dense reek of despair hung heavy in that dark prison, thick with vomit and other odors too awful to recognize. She had studiously kept her skirts away from the floor as long as she could; until a cold bucket of sea water had been heaved over her, awakening her abruptly and she had fallen in her scramble onto the wet, sticky floor. Her hands had smarted, having hit the wooden boards hard, opening wounds from her fall to the deck at the hands of that horrid, bearded man. The storm came not long after, and her desperate need to secure herself from harm outweighed all else, and she had sank down into the clotting sick which coated the small space.

Her skin crawled even though the smell was fainter than it should have been, given that she had been in that lonesome space for so long. The fabric felt clean, though still slightly moist, and a waft of orange hit her nose as she secured the last of the laces. Curious. Had these pirates washed her gown? It certainly seemed so, as she ran her hands lightly over the ruined velvet on the skirt.

She sat for a while longer, content in the small safety of her room, lulled by the soft sway and rock of the ship. Her fingers found the chain around her neck, toying with the charm. More shouting and a gale of sudden laughter crackled above her. Emma took a steading breath, pushed herself up and cracked open the door.

The room was empty - as she had expected it to be - but still she sagged in that small relief. She had expected to perhaps be locked in, made to wait for someone to retrieve her, or even made to stay in the small room indefinitely. She wasn't exactly a guest, and that fact burned the back of her throat tightly. Frying pan into the fire, so to speak. She smiled in spite of herself, Granny's muttering voice floating in her ear, always on the sarcastic side, but never without a wink to her and Leo as she did so.

Steeling herself, she walked across the gleaming floor, boards polished clean and smooth under her bare feet, hand grasped the latch, pushing softly expecting to feel the sudden resistance of a hand or a board. Neither stopped her, and the hallway itself was void of persons. Fresh salt sea air wafted lightly, enticing from the doorway to her left, and she picked her way quietly towards the muffled sounds of the deck, alive with the crew.

However lively they had been before she appeared, the ship plunged into silence as she emerged into the sunlight. Voices quieting abruptly and all eyes snapping to her. A sliver of tension flitted and sparked under her skin, fear flickering up and down her spine. Emma took a step back involuntarily, eyes wide and searching. The quarterdeck was above her, behind her back. If he was here, she couldn't see him from her current position, but fright had rooted her to the spot.

A broad shouldered man stepped forward then, nodding softly to her, actions muted as if approaching a small, wild thing.

"If you would permit me, lass, I'll show you to the galley. I'm afraid breakfast was finished some time ago," he smiled shyly at her, Emma blushed, it was rather late in the day. "But, Smee will be able to find you something. Can't have you wasting away on us now, can we?"

And just as quickly as the silence had descended, the chattering and snapping of sails in the light breeze above her was back. Spell broken for now. She blinked and smiled quickly, smoothing the front of her dress, distinctly aware of her bare feet and lack of shoes.

"Thank you, I confess I had not realized it was so late-" she started to apologize when he waved her off with a smile.

"No need, lass. Come, you must be hungry."

* * *

Curves of the familiar wood were smooth under his hands, calloused palms gliding over the grip without catching. She had always felt this way, sure and even. As a boy, ropes had burned his hands, ripping the tender skin apart until he had hardened enough against the world. There was nothing soft about him now. The sea left no room for that; a captain's life especially so. Weakness of any kind was eradicated - for it was a sword of which would slit his throat in the night. At first it had been beaten out of him, his body a charted course of lessons learned at the end of a lash. Later, it had been the sharp burn of blades against his skin which sharply cut the remaining fragments from him. Milah has found a small corner in his soul, a tiny buried piece which had not yet been burned away. But that was centuries ago now. A while he could afford to be magnanimous, and a gentleman of sorts, he would never be soft.

His thoughts drifted to his guest.

A princess. A complication to be sure - but perhaps a valuable marker. He had no quarrel with her kingdom, but pickings had been slim the past months; trading tariffs climbed steeply with the unrest in the East. Merchant ships carried less valuables and sailed far more seldom.

Heat beat down on him, sweat gathering between his shoulders. It was late in the morning, and still she had not ventured on deck. _Would she?_ He pondered, turning several degrees south-west - no particular destination in mind. He would not check on her, not yet. She was likely exhausted, and no doubt frightened, stuck yet again as she was in a less than desirable situation.

His eyes sought out Milton, tying off rigging with a little too much force. The man had been silent - brooding - the morning long. Shooting short, venomous glances over his shoulder, to which Killian met dead on. He would not tolerate open aggression, and he certainly was not backing down in this matter. The princess was a bargaining chip, not a bobble to pass among his men. If he had any chance at receiving either ransom or reward for her, she must be kept safe and comfortable.

Thus far only his first mate knew of her lineage - it wouldn't do to have her situation made public just yet. They had retreated to the officers mess, a small room at the stern, flanked by both first officer cabins and away from the prying ears of the crew. John had taken his knife out, digging the tip lightly under his nails as he had done for the last near 200 years, as Killian relaid the information Princess Emma had shared. He had said nothing, simply listened as the tale unfolded rather bleakly before him. They had been chasing the _Revenge_ for so long without victory; the crew was getting restless. Fighting was fine, but it was gold they wanted. Killian leaned back, legs stretched out long under the small table, watching his first mate with tightly coiled casualness. The situation was fraught with issues, but his ironclad grip on the crew and on _Jolly_ herself was paramount.

"Your orders, Captain?" Cowley had spoken at last, knife twirling slowly between his fingers.

"What was the damage from our chase?" He answered instead.

"Not bad," John replied, laying the blade down on the table and crossing his arms over his chest, looking for all the world far more tired than he did on deck only an hour prior. Tentative privacy and shared concerns tended to let people drop their guard, something Killian observed frequently from his officers but never allowed from himself. Here was no place for softness either. "We'll need to repair the jib sooner than later, she took the brunt of the wind damage and her gaft is fraying despite Hardy's best efforts." Cowley sighed deeply. "A week of good weather at best, sir."

A week. They had a few choices then if that were the case - and land leave would go a ways to lift the crews spirits. He mulled his options over, interrupted by Cowley's next question, uttered softly, tentative. "And, the Princess, captain? What of her?"

It was on the edge of his tongue to snarl at his first mate, snap back that she was none of his concern but the haunted look in John's grey eyes stopped him. He hardly spoke of his wife, long gone now, but her shadow had tormented him for centuries, and it was that shadow which flickered in his eyes, though he was trying his damndest to hide it.

"We bide our time."

Cowley nodded. "Is she," he paused somewhat awkwardly, "well, sir?"

"As well as can be expected." Killian replied, a thick eyebrow raised slightly at his first mate, and possibly the only person he had who could even be close to a friend. "Is her dress ready?"

"Aye, wet still, but cleaner. Poor bugger gagged the whole while cleaning it."

"Blackbeard runs a deplorable ship," Killian groused, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It was that bad, was it?"

"Caked with vile." Cowley grimaced back, a tender heart for women cracking through the armour he so steadily wore. "Poor lass."

"Aye." Killian stood then, uncomfortable suddenly with the conversation. Cowley frowned slightly and stood as well. "Sir, one more thing."

"Go on." Killian rested back against the door.

"Milton." Cowley's eyes went hard before continuing, "we might need to press him out at port. His demeanor has… deteriorated quickly."

"Our guest, I assume, has been the cause of that."

"Yes sir, I believe so. I'm watching him sir, as was Burr last evening. He reported to me at first light."

Killian dismissed the man, closing the door with a sharp click, locking himself away with his thoughts for a moment longer.

Women were tricky on ships.


	8. Chapter Eight

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

Killian listened as she was ushered away again below deck by Cowley; eyes trained warily on the crew. The silence when her blonde head had stepped through the doorway was deafening. Akin to his reception on deck when he stepped out, angry and commanding. She had been neither, had merely stood there, golden like the shine from a dobloone in the midsun air. 

Hays had stepped forward, timidly but quickly fell back when John’s large frame pushed passed him. 

He would join her shortly, it would be unwise to seem eager for her company. But he was also unwilling to demonstrate complete lack of care for her - lest that be taken as assent to claim her by the crew. 

_ Tricky indeed. _

The  _ Jolly  _ tilted lighty, though no wave had pushed her, and Killian tightened his palm minutely against the wheel. 

_ No _ . He thought sourly, petulance aimed at her shining wood. The ship tilted again; main sail snapping in annoyance at him. He sighed internally. His life was perpetually like this, arguing silently with the vessel under his feet. He could in no way win, he knew that now, after all of their many years together. Like it nor not, he was bound to her will. And she was a scrupulous mistress. Exuberant and magnificent, he kept her steady while she had navigated waters too treturous for run-of-the-mill vessels. But his beloved  _ Jolly  _ had never been ordinary, and he was no typical Captain. She shivered under him, threatening another swale.  _ Fine _ ! He thought annoyed now, for taking yet another silent order from his ship. Surely he had gone mad, private conversations such as these a clear sign that the centuries had been too much for him, that he had passed over into the realm of legends. Like Thor and his hammer, he mused while scanning the deck for Anderson. 

He would join her soon, he had other questions which were ready for the asking. 

“That’s a lovely trinket,” his voice came out as a sneer, peering far too closely at the thin chain around her neck. Emma reached up and held onto the swan charm, frozen slightly in place by the proximity of the new stranger in the small crew galley. “Captain’s not taken everything from you yet then?” he leered. 

She and the ship’s cook, a short kindly man named William “but everyone calls me Smee, you can as well if you like, milady” were getting along splendidly over a late breakfast of lemon tea, salted pork and biscuits, when the door banged open causing her to jump and her heart rate spike. 

“Leave ‘er alone, Finn. Captain wouldn’t like it.” 

The thin man growled at that, eyes narrowing in threat to the cook and pushed passed her, back into the passageway. 

“Sorry about him,” Smee offered, eyes slightly nervous. 

Emma smiled and waved her hand, there were bound to be unsavory sorts of people on pirate ships, wasn’t there? However, so far, the crew of this ship was far more pleasant than she had expected. She actually wasn’t sure what ship this even was, she had certainly heard of the notorious Captain Hook, but that’s as far as the chatter had gone. 

They finished in companionable silence and when she rose to clear the table between them, he sputtered in astonishment. 

And that was how Killian found her, suds up to her elbow deep washing the various dishes with one hand, injured palm resting on the wooden surface, from the breakfast serving. Laughing lightheartedly at a wild tale of adventure his cook was spinning while prepping the evening supper. He watched her, unnoticed from the slat of the partially open door. She hadn’t been this way with him, and he felt an uncomfortable worm of jealousy wriggle in his chest. She snorted then, a very unladylike noise and they both laughed all the harder from it, her bandaged hand - still dry and likely in need of a clean dressing - moving to cover her face, red now with mirth and embarrassment. 

“You’re teasing me, Mr. Smee, I can’t believe that tale is even half true,” she caught her breath and cleared her throat. 

“Hand to God,” Smee swore, gutting another fish on the table behind her, hands bloodied and wet. 

“And what tale is that, Smee?” He pushed the door open and leaned against the frame, head tilted back in a casualness that he certainly didn’t feel. Who was this woman? 

“The Red Sea, Captain,” Smee’s voice had lost a bit of it’s bravado, and he stood there in the middle of the galley, dead fish in his hand, waiting for orders. The Princess didn’t stop washing dishes, as perhaps she should have when he entered, unaccustomed to the rules on a ship. She lifted the elbow of the arm still plunged into the water and wiped a stray tendril of golden hair away from her face. 

“Is it true, then, Captain, that the red sea turned your ship pink?” She allowed a smirk to tug on the corner of her mouth and he was overwhelmed with the urge to kiss her there. 

“Aye. Treacherous waters are those,” he grinned back at her. Hopefully his crewman hadn’t shared the entire Red Sea narrative with her. He stepped towards her, holding out a hand, palm up. “You don’t need to do that, lass.” 

“I don’t mind,” she replied softly, face pinching with worry quickly and looking up at him in doubt. “Unless,” she swallowed. “Unless I am not allowed to. I am sorry, I didn’t-” he cut her off. “It’s fine lass, but you don’t have to, it's not… expected.” 

The galley was quiet for a moment, she continued awkwardly washing dishes with one hand, and Smee went back to his preparations. The lightheartedness and laughter of the space before he arrived had evaporated entirely and he didn’t know why it bothered him. As the last of the dishes were done, Emma stood back and wiped her hands on a cloth beside her. 

“If you are quite finished, milady, you and I have business to discuss,” he held out a hand towards the door, intent on returning her back in his quarters. She nodded, folded the cloth to place it back on the counter and nodded kindly to the cook, gliding passed him out the door and into the hallway. He led her, hook pressed gently into her lower back, through the long passage across the ship to his rooms, opening the door and gesturing inside. 

She stepped into the bright room, sun streaming in through the set of windows. It was just past noon and the sea was calm, stretching out before them to the sky. 

“I have reason to believe, your Highness, he started, pulling out a chair for her, intention clear. She sank into it, a wary look on her face, eyes narrowed, watching him carefully. “That the attack on your ship was not a matter of chance. I believe you were targeted.”

The Princess’s face betrayed her shock, whatever she had expected, it surely wasn’t this. 

“Targeted?” 

“Indeed,” he turned towards the sideboard and produced a bottle of wine, pouring two small glasses, setting hers down in front of her. She looked like she might need it. 

“I don't understand,” she said softly, twisting the sleeve between her fingers, scarf hiding most of her hand. “They didn’t want me, no one threatened me after they weighed anchor or even mentioned a ransom. I’m not even sure the Captain,” she swallowed a large mouthful and shivered at the taste, “knew I was there.” 

She slowly looked up to meet his eyes, softer now even behind the kohl. 

“They simply pulled me off the ship and tossed me in the dark.” Emma swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. She reached for the wine glass on the table again to find it nearly empty. Killian stood slowly, careful still not to startle her, and handed her the bottle from the cabinet. “Thank you,” she whispered, sloshing the red liquid into the glass. “They left me to die. Why would they do that?” 

Her breath hitched. While kidnapping and ransom was not something she wanted to ever experience, being kidnapped and left to die was surely worse. 

“He didn’t want you. You we’re the prize he was after,” Killian took a strong sip of his wine, it wasn’t the best, but it was all they had in the last port he had visited. She cast her eyes down at the severity of his tone and he felt immediately regretful. While he had had time to ponder her situation this morning as a series of events, she had experienced the trauma of those events keenly and was clearly still reeling from them. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean-”

“No, no, it’s okay. Thank gods he didn’t want me. That would have been much, much worse, I’m sure. But, if he didn’t want me, what did he want?” 

Killian leaned back. He had a suspicion. And she wasn’t going to like it. 

“The  _ Revenge  _ caught you on the start of your journey, correct?” she nodded. “Where were you headed?” 

“Arendelle, I was due there for the first of summer.”

His face lit up then, cocky and humorous. He was attractive, she thought fleetingly, perhaps not much older then she was - though much more world wary. 

“That’s in three months time,” he barked, astonished. 

“Yes.” 

“You needed three months to make a journey that should take no longer than one?” 

It was Emma’s turn to laugh, a sharp sound that seemed far too loud against the afternoon quiet. “One? You taunt me, Captain. The best of our royal navy would take at least six weeks to reach Arendelle. Why, our fastest Man-o-War might,  _ might _ ,” she was animated now, brow pinched together, voice far more open then she had sounded in his presence this far. “Be able to make the journey, provided the winds are with them and the sea is flat - in less than 40 days.  _ Might _ . But one month? That’s an outlandish claim.” 

“Outlandish?” Oh, he liked her like this, riled up and arrogant. He was hit again by the overwhelming urge to kiss her, to tangle his hands in her hair and pull her head back, to bite at her neck. She was a distraction, to be sure. One he couldn’t afford to indulge in. 

“Yes. No vessel is that fast.” 

“Mine is.” 

“Blackbeard. Why do you suppose he attacked us then?” she changed the subject abruptly, face flushing prettily as she took another small sip from her glass. 

“I believe that he needed a different vessel. One that would  _ unlock  _ some doors, you might say.” 

“He wanted to use the Snow to get access into different ports? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?” 

“Aye, that’s what I would do if I were him. The Revenge is - was,” he corrected smirking at his own success, “notorious. He wouldn’t be able to port in any reputable towns, and he certainly would not escape the notice of any royal navy vessel. But,” he gestured loosely, “with your ship, all those issues just, vanish.” 

Standing abruptly, Emma turned towards the long bank of windows, eyes squinting slightly against the bright. She was silent, shifting through strategies, possibilities and options. This Captain was a wild card, an unknown entity. She hadn’t been on even footing with him since she woke up in his cabin. He hadn’t harmed her, though she couldn’t afford to let her guard down on that score. 

She chewed on her lip. What would her father do? Something drastic. Now was not the time for that. So, then, what would her mother do? Snow White was resourceful, cunning when she needed to be and above all, she was brave. Emma squared her shoulders, resolved now, that was what she needed to be. 

“This Blackbeard, he is an enemy of yours, is he not?” she turned towards him, power settling around her like a cape; barefoot and clad in a destroyed dress. She tilted her chin slightly. 

“Aye,” eyes flinting and jaw tight, he leaned closer across the table, watching her where she stood rooted to the floor, hair floating around her shoulders; the sun beaming behind her, she glowed brightly. 

“Then, Captain, we find ourselves at a cooperative crossroad,” she stepped forward, eyes never leaving his. “For the enemy of my enemy, is my friend. And seem to have a common foe.”

“Is that right, princess? You fancy going to war, do you?” 

“I want my ship, Captain. Surely you can understand that motivation.” 

“Seems we have a common foe indeed, your Highness.” 

Emma nodded, the faint tingle of triumph shooting through her veins. She had to be resourceful, but not stupid. He was still a pirate, and for whatever he pledged to her in his quest to retrieve whatever was taken from him, she would do well to remember that. 

“This ship, what is her name?” 

He rose, handing her glass to her and picking up his own, clinking the rims together slowly. 

“Welcome to the  _ Jolly Roger, _ milady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! 
> 
> xox
> 
> Captain Swan fan? Check out my new multi-chapter story on my Profile (The Ripple Effect: A Captain Swan Tale) 
> 
> It's going to be sooooooo good


	9. Chapter Nine

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_  
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

“Where are we?” she had asked, leaning over his shoulder, blonde hair falling around them like a golden curtain. 

“We are here now, Princess,” he pricked his hook into the map, leaving another small pinprick in the already well marred paper. “The _Revenge_ went down here,” he slid the metal appendage slowly eastward. 

She had hummed and turned the map towards herself without asking. Her behaviour continued to amuse him - which in itself was surprisingly. No one touched these items except him, and here she was, a slip of a woman moving his room around to suit her needs. 

It didn’t help that she was wearing more of Milah’s clothing. The dress he had ordered laundered was serviceable, but impractical and the faint smell of vile clung to it still, no matter how many times they had boiled it in the Chinese orange blossom extract soap. 

He had opened the drawer and told her to find something to fit her. She had given him a questioning look, but had kept silent and once he had returned from the helm, new orders issued, she was comfortable with a pair of leather riding breeches and a loose fitting linen shirt. 

They had been at this for hours, and no matter what he asked her, she had an intelligent response to it. She had been well taught - though she was no sailor - in the ways of charting, navigation and tracking. From what little he knew of Princesses, and granted it wasn’t truly a lot, this was not commonplace. 

“As far as I am aware, my ship was taken here,” she tapped a section of sea outside of the Misthaven Naval controlled waters. “Give or take,” she added with a raise of her brow. 

He had unrolled several nautical charts and maps onto the small desk, and they had been each been pouring over them for hours, she working through which ports her kingdom did business with, along with any notable foes or trading disputes. While he noted well known - but mostly less known - hideouts within a fortnight journey of where her ship had been commandeered _‘a lovely term for stolen’._

Emma had said that Blackbeard had intended, as far as she had been aware, of keeping her in the brig for at least that long. It stood to reason that Blackbeard would have his men take her someone out of the way and relatively unknown. Since he had taken her ship for his own, her ransom would have interfered with his plans. _No_ , Killian mused as he calculated the distance to a series of small islands to the deep south of Agrabah, _he would have planned on keeping her until an opportunity presented itself._

Which took him back to the less traveled port towns and hideaways. Somewhere a princess would not be noticed. Somewhere they could have kept her locked away until they either had no more need of the Snow and could ransom her, or she had worn out her entertainment value. His stomach rolled at the last thought.

“We might be assuming a few too many things,” she said as she stood and stretched from her position on her small bunk, the door to the tiny adjoining cabin had been latched open, and when she had run out of surfaces in his cabin to lay out the various maps and charts she needed, she brought them into her small room as well. 

Her hair was a mess, she had braided small twists into it as she poured over the maps, fingers kept purposefully busy. 

Killian sighed. He already knew they had, but he also hadn’t expected her to come to the same conclusion.

“With the storm you mean.” 

“Well, yes.” 

“We’re assuming that he was running from you when he entered the storm,” she came back out into the main cabin and the sight of her dressed more as a pirate and less than bedraggled royalty lit something in his blood. She was beautiful, to be sure. But dressed in black leather pants that hugged her as if they had been made for her, and a shirt with no corset, she was a sinful sight. 

She stood expectly, looking at him as he was lost in his perusal of her. He felt a blush crawl up his neck and he turned back to his charts to hide it. “Aye.” 

“But what if they were leading you away from something?” 

_Oh hell. He hadn’t thought of that._

* * *

The sun was setting and the sea stretched out before them like it was on fire. Reds, pink and blood orange flared across the sky. 

Emma was on deck, as no one had explicitly told her she had to stay below, and leaning against the rail on the bow. The kindly faced man, _John Cowley at your service, ma’am_ , smiled at her and came to stand a few feet away, mirroring her pose and inhaling the scent of salt in the air. 

“Red sky,” he nodded, more to himself it seemed than to her. “Tomorrow will be a great day at sea, milady.” 

Emma smiled back, confusion twisting her mouth softly to the side. “And why is that, Mr. Cowley?” 

“Just Cowley, ma’am, if you please,” he shifted uncomfortably for a moment and she felt a wave of guilt come upon her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-” 

“Don’t fret, lass. A story for another day perhaps, though it’s not a happy one.” 

They stood in awkward silence for a moment longer before he cleared his throat, “there’s a saying, as old as the world itself,” he winked at her and she felt the tension lift from her shoulders. “Red sky at night sailors delight; red sky in the mornin’ sailors take warnin’." 

“And there’s truth in that?” Emma asked, looking back out over the flaming sea. 

“Oh, aye. I’ve been sailing my share of years - more than most folk,” he smirked at her, and he nodded, _yes_ , she had heard the ridiculous stories of a pirate crew who hailed from a land where you never grow old. Captain Hook and his crew here on the _Jolly Roger_ might be fearsome and legendary - but they were men, not 200 year old legends. “And a red sky brings both prosperity and ruination, depending on the side of the moon. Much like a woman, I suppose,” he was teasing her now, and she smiled. No one but her family dared to, and it was heartening to feel a part of something so far from home. 

She stood a while longer, Cowley bowing to her slightly to carry on with his duties, and watched the sun finally settling in to watery horizon. One by one, lanterns sprang to life across the ship, crewmen flitting around, paying her little more than curious attention, securing the ship for the evening. She felt him before he heard him, a tall imposing presence behind her. 

“Come, it’s time to retire,” it was a command masked as a request, but she wasn’t foolish enough to deny him - nor did she have reason to, apart from loving to watch the stars start to wake in the sky above her. But there would be time enough for that. 

He led her with a hand pressed into the small of her back, until they arrived at the door to his cabin. He opened the door for her, but did not step in after her. She looked back at him, confused. _Was she to be locked in here now?_

“I will be having dinner in the officer’s lounge,” he explained, trying to ease her worried expression. “I thought, perhaps, you would like a bath, and to have dinner in peace.” He nodded then to the large brass tub which sat steaming in the corner of the room. She hadn’t noticed it until now and her fingers suddenly itched to touch it. There was a small stool pulled to the side of the large basin, certainly large enough for her to fully submerge into, and on it sat a thick towel and what looked like a pat of soap and a fresh sponge. 

The table which had held their day’s work of maps and charts had been cleared off, and on it now sat a tray with meats, breads, dried fruits and cheeses. Her mouth watered and she considered bringing the tray with her to the bath. 

“I trust everything will be to your satisfaction. Please don’t rush, I will not be returning for much of the night.” 

“Thank you, this is very kind,” she whispered. He simply smiled and bowed to her, closing the door behind him. 

Emma stripped quickly, chilled now in the quiet room. Along with the small bar of fine exotic soap, he had left several small vials of oils. She stepped into the tub, water boarding on too hot, and slowly sank into the heat. 

She twisted the corks out of each bottle, inhaling the scent and letting herself appreciate each one. She settled for the orange blossom vial, a scent she had only smelled once before as a child. A dignitary from a far off land called China had come to meet with her parents. During the formal welcome parade, the man had bowed and presented both her and Leo with a beautiful orange fruit. It smelled of a far off place and she was loath to throw out the peel, even after she had enjoyed the fruit itself. Granny had taken the peelings and dried them for her. He still had that small satchel of dried curls. It sat on her dresser and though the smell had indeed faded over time, the memory of that day and Granny, still clung to it. 

She tipped a few splashes into the water and the steam rising from the heat brought with it the fresh cleanness of the oil. She closed her eyes, tears suddenly shimmering on the surface, threatening to spill down her face. This was a kindness she had not anticipated. Her circumstances on this ship were unclear and tenuous. Though the Captain and crew appeared to mean her no harm - crewman in the galley this morning aside, of course - this was not _her_ ship. She was worth a fair amount of gold, and no pirate she had ever heard of would willing part with a treasure like that. So while Captain Hook - Jones, he had said - had welcomed her onto his ship, she was still a commodity. 

_Wasn’t she?_

_Was this how a man who saw her as loot would treat her?_

She scrunched the sponge under the water and pulled it up to her shoulder. The soap was light and slightly floral, another unexpected surprise. She had expected a course hand curbed varietal, but this one was feminine and lovely. 

She dunked her head and scrubbed the soap through her long tresses lastly under the still warm water. Emma stayed in the bath as long as she could, hesitant to leave the one feeling of warm and clean she had experienced in several days, finally standing and wrapping herself in the proffered towel before stepping carefully onto the cool floor. 

Drying as quickly as she could, she wrapped herself in the robe he had given her last night, dressed her injured hand, which was starting to heal nicely, and pulled on a pair of warm woolen socks he had tossed at the this afternoon while she huddled on her small bunk, hands holding her feet in a desperate attempt to warm them. They had struck her on the head and she had looked up at him appalled, a boyish smirk crawling across his face. He had shown her the small wardrobe then full of women's clothing, and told her to make what use of it she could. 

She hadn’t asked, their truce still new and tentative, but the tattoo on his wrist and the reverence in which he handled the chest all but confirmed her suspicions. These things belonged to someone named Milah, and he had loved her, once. 

* * *

Killian was distracted. 

Dinner had finished over an hour ago, a grim and silent affair. He stood on the night-dark deck, leaning a hip against the rail and watching the Jolly’s gunner’s cross swords. 

It was a nightly occurrence for the most part - especially with the younger lads. Cowley was standing to his left, small knife out again, whittling at a square of driftwood. His first mate had been side-eyeing him all evening, and his patience was at its end. 

“What?” he snarled, not taking his eyes from the blades dancing in front of them. 

Cowley, shook his head, a tiny movement Killian suspected only those who had known him the entirety of these past 200 years would catch. 

“Come off it, you’re as coy as a serving maid, what is it?” Killian faced him now, pulling himself up to his full height. He wasn’t as large as John Cowley - few were - but this was his ship, and he didn’t appreciate the sideways glances he was getting. 

Killian swept passed him, and took the stairs to the helm, John following a moment later. He rested his hands lightly on the wheel and asked growled, louder now that they were alone, “what is it, John?” 

Cowley replied, but not before tucking the small knife back into the sheath at his belt and sliding the piece of wood into a deep pocket. John hadn’t carved in over a century, and the fact that he had started again was a fact that Killian filed away to examine later. 

“The lass, Captain. What of the lass?” Cowley’s face was carefully blank and his words were low, clipped as if expecting orders to toss her overboard at any moment. 

“What of her?” Killian responded flippantly. Cowley was the only member of his crew that knew her circumstances - all of them - and they had agreed the spread of such knowledge amongst the crew was not advisable. To know a member of a royal house was on board would invite too many questions, and far too much trouble. She was causing enough of a stir without adding who she truly was thrown into that equation. 

“We cannot keep her here,” John’s voice was getting harsher. “It’s not right.” 

“Need I remind you,” Killian turned on him suddenly, his first mate's eyes widening in alarm. “That is my ship, and what happens on it, especially when it comes to the _cargo_ , is my business and mine alone.” 

John was a smart man, but he was also brave. _A true gentleman_ , and he wasn’t backing down. 

“She’s cargo, now, is she?” John whispered harshly back while adopting a relaxed pose against the rail looking out over the main deck. Several men below were watching them, and any discord almost a ship’s leaders could give rise to a challenge of power. 

“She’s whatever I wish her to be,” was the reply, words catching and turning his guts. 

“Well, then,” John pushed himself off the rail and bowed to him sardonically, “I do wish the cargo had a pleasant bath this evening, Sir, shall I send someone to replenish her wine, or would you care to do that yourself?” 

They stood for several heartbeats, neither moving. KIllian’s left arm tremored, the ever present violent monster which lurked beneath his skin tugging at it’s leash; desperate to teach this man a lesson in respect. But John was right - _he usually was, damn him_ \- and Killian’s eyes flinted before growling, low and dangerous. “Watch it, John.” 

John didn’t blink, continuing to watch his Captain as he backed up two steps to the top of the stairs. “I shall leave you to it, then, Sir.” he bowed again and stepped down onto the main deck. 

* * *

The room was warm and hot, steam clung to the windows from the humidity of her bath. There was a lantern still burning on the desk, beside a propped open book from his small library and her near empty dinner tray. There was wine still in her glass and he reached for it without a thought; draining it in one swallow and feeling the tannins sting his mouth. 

The door to the adjoining cabin was still propped open from his morning, and her soft breathing permeated his cabin. 

John had been right - though he had not come straight out and said it. 

_She was a complication, but not necessarily an unwelcome one._


	10. Chapter Ten

_"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."_   
_\- Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

The blade snapped quickly against her thigh. _That would surely bruise by evening._ The sharp hiss of her borrowed leather trousers rang out through the air on the ship deck as the sun beat down upon them. 

“Oww!” she gritted through clenched teeth, bare toes curling against the . 

“Don't let your guard down,” he replied simply, parrying her once more, pushing her across the deck before she could manage a counter attack. He was fast, so much faster than she was and the sun in her eyes and the roll of the ship beneath her caused her footing to be hesitant and unsure. 

The crew had stopped in their duties, deck quiet and watchful as their Captain had handed her a dullen cutlass, a practice sword; eyebrow raised in challenge. She had been standing at the bow, hair billowing with the force of the wind. Cowley had been correct; the day was indeed perfect, and if the gulls circling overhead were any indication, they would soon see land on the horizon. 

_Snap._

“Stop it!” she hadn’t meant to yell it, but she was hot, and flustered, and so very tired of him besting her. He did step back then, having pushed her once more across the low deck, her back against the gunwale. 

“Apologies, lass,” he looked almost contrite, _almost_. She didn’t dare lower the blade again, however she might wished to, arms burning with effort, sweat trickling down her spine. 

“I’m fine,” she raised her chin, more a force of habit than anything else. Losing always made her defensive, and it called back from her memory so many evenings spent with her father and Leo. They had always sparred in the garden after dinner, away from the prying eyes of the staff and guards. Her father was a natural, though he had not grown up with a blade. Leo was fierce, fast and strong, though perhaps reckless and hurried. 

Emma had never taken to sparring, she had always preferred small knives. “I’m just frustrated, that’s all.” 

“You’re doing well,” he complimented with a small nod, eyes assessing her carefully. Emma shifted, uncomfortable. _No, she wasn’t_. He had pushed her clear across the deck of the ship more times than she cared to count over the last hour. He moved so fast, far quicker than her father ever had, and the cutlass in her hand felt awkward and hazardous. 

He read the expression on her face well and stepped forward, hand outstretched to retrieve the blade from her. She gave it willingly; flexing her fingers in relief after having held the grip so tightly. 

“Truly, love. A cutlass is not an easy blade to master.” 

She nodded, accepting a flask of water from him as he joined her against the railing. They stood in silence for several moments, the ship alive around them.

“I thought it would be easier,” she stated quietly, watching the horizon. 

“It’s lighter, to be sure,” he turned to rest his forearms on the bright yellow paint of the rail. “I would hazard,” he continued softly, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sundrenched sea, “that you are more used to a broadsword.” 

She was, it had been her father’s weapon of choice. It had felt solid, held with two hands in front of her, heavy but manageable and familiar. She nodded and smiled in spite of herself. “Is it that obvious?” 

“May I offer a suggestion?” 

“So long as you don’t hit me with that insufferable blade again, you may.” 

He smiled, nodding and cocked his head to the side, watching her from the corner of this eye. He seemed to decide on something, and pushed away from the gunwale, pulling his own cutlass from the scabbard at his hip and holding it out steadily. 

His voice was crisp against the sunshine, like the crack of a coming storm. He showed her how to hold the blade with one hand, how to keep her feet sideways, _make yourself as small a target as possible, lass,_ and how to shift with the rolling of the sea. The grip of his sword was warm from his hand as he held it out to her, and as he adjusted her stance with slight touches the heat which had begun to cool from her skin alighted once more. 

His hand rested for a moment on the small of her back as he turned her more fully to the side. His hook encircled the hilt of the sword in her hand bringing it ever so slightly higher. 

“There,” he swallowed thickly, his face close to hers. “Perfect form, love.”

* * *

_Land Ho!_

The deck fluttered with activity, sails raised and lowered and the Captain with this spyglass to his eye had issued bellowed orders to the men. Emma had been ushered below deck nearly at once, Cowley’s hand on her elbow as she descended the slippery stairs, wet from a recent wash. 

“You ought’a wear shoes, lass,” he nodded down at her still-bare feet. “The ship can be a treacherous place.” 

Emma shifted uncomfortably, offering him a small smile at his kindness. “I don't,” she trailed off, thinking of her flight from her cabin on board the _Snow_ , of her many things she had been forced to leave left behind. “I don’t have shoes.” Her voice trailed off quietly, embarrassed even, to be royalty and so poorly attired. 

The large man stepped back, bowing his head slightly in apology and Emma offered him another tight smile, feeling overwhelmed all of a sudden with the need to explain herself. 

“There wasn’t time, after we had been spotted. The ship was on us too quickly,” she blinked, heart beating faster with the memory of fear, sharp and rancid as quicksilver at the base of her throat. 

“I didn’t have time to change, so I grabbed what I could and hid. Although, admittedly,” her mouth turned into a small scowl. “Not overly well.” 

“I’m sorry, lass.” 

“It’s not your fault,” she murmured, heart clenching fast and tightly in her chest, the overwhelming wave of loss threatening her once more. 

Cowley cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders, uncomfortable to the emotion playing across her face, and feeling no small measure of shame for it. 

“We’ll make landfall by the evening, milady,” his voice sharper now, all humour evaporating like the mist on the sea at sunbreak. “We’ll make sure you get new shoes.” And with that he was gone, leaving her staring after his retreating form, watching his fist clench and unclench as he stomped up the steep stairs.

Cowley was right about that too. She had sat nervously in the small adjoining room of the large cabin, listening intently to the swell of discord above her. The voices of the crew lashing together with the rush of the sea against the docks. Chancing a glance out the window, the colours and sounds unfamiliar, she watched the bustle of the harbour settle for a moment in a way the world always seemed to stop and wait with baited breath upon the arrival of a new ship. 

The _Jolly Roger_ was a notorious vessel, carrying with her the myth of a crew from beyond the grave. Terrifying to be sure, but superstition, nothing more. 

The door to the cabin opened suddenly and she jumped away from the bank of windows, nervous with banked excitement. 

“I have been informed,” Killian announced, amusement colouring his eyes an even more impossible shade of blue, “that you are in need of shoes.” 

She opened her mouth to respond, to say it was fine, _she was fine_. To argue that such an expense on her behalf was unnecessary but he simply pushed passed her carefully to rummage through the small chest once more. He held two soft looking leather slippers towards her, shrugging when she took them tentatively. “These won't do for long. But they will at least get you to a proper cobbler.” His eyes were soft behind the kohl and she ran a thumb back and forth against the leather, the rise and fall of the laces gentle under the skin. 

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes flicking quickly up to his, nervous with the intensity of the dark blue pools which met hers for only a moment before she looked back to the space between them. 

“Come, love. We’ll make landfall shortly.” 

* * *

He had left her once the seamstress had ushered her into the back of the shop, curtain swinging solidly shut as the princess gave him one more wide-eyed, emerald stare. 

He was playing a dangerous game. To assist a Princess was one thing, but to keep her was something else entirely. Cowley had huffed and complained about the state of the young woman. How she should be delivered safely back home, to near enough to it, and they should sail on. Blackbeard was still out there and the fate of one lone royal vessel surely did not outweigh that fact. Cowley was right, in some respects. His selfish desire to keep Emma to himself had put them in the crosshairs of something he did not fully understand. _Yet_... 

But instead, he had growled and shoved his way into John’s face, eyes menacing and narrowed in anger. They had time to find out what they were up against, and it was foolish to throw away such an opportunity. 

“Aye, Captain.” 

“Now get out of my sight,” his jaw snapped, venom hissing from each punctuated word. John was the closest thing he had to a friend, but this was toeing a dangerous line, and he stared hard at the man he had known for nearly the span of two centuries and allowed the shadow of evil which had lurked beneath his skin for so long shimmer and flick across his eyes. 

Cowley had swallowed, backing away slowly and nodding in acknowledgement of the threat before turning silently and climbing the ladder to the main deck. 

Killian pulled the flask from his cost pocket. Irritation shivering through him. The comb he had bought for Emma that afternoon sat heavily in his pocket. He had bought it on a whim, fingers trailing over the carved detail on the handle, metal shining and solid in the sunlight of the shop window. He had held the gift in the palm of his hand. He had told himself, as the young girl had wrapped it for him, tying it neatly with a small curl of ribbon he had picked, that it was a necessity, that she needed it. 

His cabin door stood solidly to his left and he pushed through without knocking, mind at war with itself.

She could hear the muffled voices outside the cabin door, the low menacing growl of hissed threats before the door swung open and the Captain strode in, gracing her with the barest of glances before storming through the cabin. He had been in a foul mood since he had retrieved her from the small shop later that afternoon, and she had not determined what had caused it. He had very nearly frog marched her back to the ship, hand gripping the underside of her arm tightly until she stumbled over a curb, skirts tangled around her ankles and he had the grace to look abashed. He muttered a quiet apology and set his hand instead on her lower back, slowing his pace to match hers. 

A crash from the far side of the room made her jump and muffle a cry of alarm. 

Killian stopped at the noise of distress and took a calming breath, releasing it and the tension which had followed him around since his argument had started with John in the small alleyway outside the tavern that afternoon. 

“Apologies, lass.” 

“It’s alright,” her voice was quiet and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m going to turn in, it’s been an eventful day.” She lied roughly, voice tripping over the words with unease. 

“Of course,” he nodded and gave her a tight smile before moving to retrieve the small wrapped parcel from his coat. “Here,” he stretched his arm towards her, the dim of the lanterns turning the deep red ribbon to the colour of fresh blood. “This is for you.” 

Her hand hesitated as if she expected a trap, and he felt a sliver of shame twist in his gut. He had been short with her that afternoon and had left her alone and confused on the ship with a barked order to stay put before he went to the tavern to stare into the untouched tankard of ale which had been placed in front of him. “I apologize for my rudeness this afternoon, lass.” 

She met his eyes finally, green and assessing, and the slight lift of her chin caused a smile to slide across his face. She took the outstretched parcel, finally breaking his gaze to untie the length of ribbon. Her fingers unwrapped the comb, tracing the patterns on the handle slowly with the tip of her finger. 

The silence in the cabin was stifling, and Killian shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, resisting the urge to scratch behind his ear. “I thought,” he started only to hesitate when he noticed a tear track slowly down the curve of her cheek. _Bloody hell._ “I’m sorry, Princess,” he addressed her formally, accent linting across the words, clipped and unsure. He felt off balance with this woman, and it was making him uncomfortable. “I thought, perhaps, this might be useful. I didn’t mean to upset you, I-” 

“No, you didn’t upset me,” she gave him a tight smile, tear tracks glistening on her face. “This is very kind, thank you.” 

His eyebrows rose, suspicious of her words as the evidence of her upset trailed once more down her cheek before she could whip it away. 

“Truly,” Emma nodded, smiling now, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “It’s only that,” she started again, now in better control of her voice, “I was not expecting the gift.”

“Ah,” he nodded, unsure as to what to make of her. She had been a fierce thing this morning on deck, angry and beautiful, but here alone as they were she had somehow retreated back into herself. “If you do not like it-” he gestured loosely with his hook, suddenly feeling very tired. 

“It’s perfect,” she cut him off, standing suddenly and leaning to place a gentle kiss against the rough stubble of his jaw. Her lips lingered for the span of four heartbeats and he dared not breath. She backed away then, hand closing around the latch for the small door, pulling it slowly closed before whispering, in a breathy, hushed voice which would surely haunt him, “good night, Killian.” 

* * *

He needed air. 

The cabin was hot and he laid awake, restless and uneasy. His eyes followed to the small room across from him, to the woman behind that closed door. 

He flung the quilt aside. It was well past midnight, and the ship was vibrating with raucous noise above him on deck. 

The _Jolly_ was uneasy. They had pulled away from the dock over an hour ago, Burr manning the helm as the small port town retreated in the distance. The creaking of the hull disquieting. There was the feel of a storm in the air. Killian pushed through the door, eyes casting around the deck, assessing the men milling to and fro, noting the angry set of jaws, the clenching of fists and the whisper of anger and violence in the air. 

Milton was snarling from his usual place against the mast, leaning against the enchanted wood, arms locked over his chest. Cowley had been keeping an eye on the man, noting small changes in his behaviour, but had reported nothing which would typically raise alarm. But it did. Killian strode slowly across the deck, watching for the smallest of movement, pleased with the scurry of feet as he made sure to pass by each man in turn. As he leaned against the gunwale, flask in hand, the cast of the lanterns across the deck bathing the wood in an ethereal glow, the all too familiar sound of a fist meeting a jaw snapped his attention to the bow. 

The sea rolled beneath them, a warning of what was to come, and the Jolly’s sails curled and snapped to the starboard side before calming once more. 

Killian moved to break up the altercation, brawls in a tavern were one thing, but to lose control of his men while on deck was something else entirely. Something deadly and dangerous. 

The whirl of violence ended, his cutlass across the neck of the aggressor, a lanky man they had picked up several weeks ago. The man was breathing heavy and sputtered an apology while Killian pressed his blade against the swallow of the man's throat. “Sorry, Captain,” he wheezed, nose clearly broken. 

Anderson pushed through the throng of men, pistol drawn. 

Killian stood as he was for several more moments, waiting for the ship to calm before removing his weapon. “Get him out of my sight,” he snarled and stepped aside for Anderson to haul the man back across the deck. 

A frizzle of uneasy shivered across Killian’s skin. He was missing something… 

He glanced back around the deck, the skin on his neck prickling with warning. The _Jolly_ keened again and bucked over a rogue wave, pushing the crew against the fall of the hull. 

His attention snapped suddenly to the main mast, where the shadow of Milton had stood several minutes before. Before the fight had broken out, before his attention had been elsewhere. He covered the space of the deck in several strides, blood rushing in his veins. _Something was wrong._

* * *

Emma woke with a start as the cabin door banged open, the shuffled stomp of boots unfamiliar in the dark. She groaned and ran a hand down over her face, feeling the weight of the last several days press down on her; exhaustion making her movements sluggish. The footfall hurried around the cabin before the latch jostled on her door, she sat up, fear tickling across her hands. 

“Lass?" 

Emma held her breath, it wasn’t Killian. The voice was familiar, but she didn’t know the crew well enough to pick out a name for the deep hissed words. 

The door opened quickly and a hand shot out to grasp blindly in the dark, for her before she could move away. 

“Come lass, I’ll get you out of here,” the voice was insistent, and the light from the lantern illuminated his face when he pushed into her small room. She knew this man, he was the one who watched her when she was on deck. He hadn’t spoken to her, but his eyes were always on her. 

She glanced behind him, searching wildly for Killian or Cowley, but there was no one else. 

“Come with me, now.” He grabbed her wrist and tugged her free from the covers, catching her solidly as she tumbled nearly to the floor. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she shouted, hoping someone would hear her against the pounding of her own erratic heart. “Let me go!”


End file.
